


Vine & Fig Tree

by QueenofEden



Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Money Troubles, poor gardening skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:12:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7066588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofEden/pseuds/QueenofEden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reunited after years apart, Maric and Loghain navigate just one of the trials and tribulations of domestic life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vine & Fig Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/gifts).
  * Inspired by [This is How We Heal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738403) by [rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/rhoswenmahariel). 



> A self-indulgent companion piece of sorts to Kristyn rhoswenmahariel's 'This is How We Heal'. Takes place in our same established universe, in which, to quote her own notes on the afore mentioned fic, "Maric did not die at the end of Until We Sleep, but survived, albeit injured and frail, that Loghain survived the Fifth Blight, and that they were romantically together in the past." There is also a brief mention of our implied joint warden canon.
> 
> Reading that is not entirely necessary to understanding this, but is highly recommended both for continuity and because it is a Good fic in general.
> 
> Happy Birthday lovely ♥︎♥︎♥︎

“The boy,” Loghain says with obvious distaste, “has sent us money again.”

They’re the first words he speaks to Maric, only just having shuffled out of their bedroom and still in his night shirt. Loghain is fully dressed, and likely had been for some time, still up before dawn every day, a decades long habit he seemed to have no interest in breaking. 

On the table at which Loghain sits, there is a crisply folded piece of parchment bearing the Theirin crest -- once his own, and now Alistair’s -- and a small velveteen pouch of what must be the coin in question.

“Good morning to you too, Love.” He replies coolly, rounding the small table in search of the kettle and his favorite mug. Dealing with Loghain’s dramatics would be much more bearable once he’d had his morning tea. Finding both waiting by the already stoked stove, where Loghain had no doubtedly left them, he lets out a fond sigh and rolls his eyes.

The feet of Loghain’s chair scrape against the floor with a harsh sound that makes him wince. They should get a rug, Maric thinks, to protect the floor and his ears. Something plush and colorful to liven up the otherwise austere cabin. Even after months of living here -- _Maker, of living in their home_ , the idea still sending a thrill through Maric’s old bones -- they’d done little in the way of personalizing it, too busy with things like relearning his own body as well as each other to consider domestic things like draperies and carpets.

Loghain’s voice cuts into his thoughts abruptly, “Maric, are you even listening to me?”

He hadn’t been, but he can only assume it was more musings on the bag of coin still sitting on the tabletop. It was a discussion they’d had before, nearly every time the raven arrived, but this time he seemed more adamant than usual to pick at it.

“Yes, yes of course,” Maric lies, pouring out a measure of steaming water into his mug and letting it steep. “My fiend of a son has once again sent us our monthly stipend, how dastardly of him.”

The corner of his mouth quirks upwards but Loghain doesn’t seem to find him as amusing as he finds himself. No surprise there, really. Maric sighs, taking the hot mug carefully in his hands and carrying it to the table to sit opposite him.

“We don’t need his coin.” Loghain mutters gruffly, arms crossed defensively over his chest and glowering, not _at_ Maric but what seems to be the world in general.  
“Don’t we? I can think of at least twelve things we’re running low on, I’ve been meaning to go into the village for days now.” He blows the steam away from the mug and takes a small sip. “Besides, you know he only does it on the girl’s behalf, it gives them peace of mind to know they didn’t save our lives only to leave us out here starving.”

Loghain shifts in his seat and Maric knows he’s touched a nerve, “Even so, the garden--”

He doesn’t finish the thought, but Maric still casts a quick glance out the small kitchen window overlooking their garden -- if one could call it that -- comprised entirely of the half-collapsed remains of one single pumpkin, barely larger than his fist, and a few shriveled stalks of wheat poking sadly out of the dark earth. They had started it with the lofty goal that, given Loghain’s history of farming, they would be able to grow enough food to sustain not only themselves, but to have surplus enough to sell or barter at the local market. The endeavor, though well intentioned, had unfortunately proved less than, well, _fruitful_.

“We can take care of ourselves.” Loghain insists with finality, despite the dubious arch of Maric’s brow. The unspoken _‘I can take care of you’_ hangs between them. Their measly garden may be a shambles, but Loghain had been a proud man far longer than Maric had known him, and it was in loving him that he also grew to love that pride, even if it drives him mad at times. He could hardly begrudge him his hurt feelings. It is not easy to lose everything, only then to pick up and start over, both of them know that better than others. Then again, when had anything ever come easily to the both of them?

He reaches out with one slippered foot, knocking it against Loghain’s calf beneath the small table. Loghain starts at the touch, but the stern lines of his face seem to soften.

“I’ll make a deal with you.” Maric says quietly, abandoning his cup to reach his hand across the table towards Loghain. He waggles his fingers at him until Loghain begrudgingly places his own hand in his. Maric beams.

“What sort of deal?”

“First of all, we take the coin--”

Loghain balks, “Maric--!”

“Hush darling, let me finish.” Maric gives his hand a gentle squeeze to silence him. “First, we take the coin into the village, the two of us. We purchase our essentials, and then we use a portion of the rest on new equipment and seeds for the garden. I’m strong enough to help with the planting now, so all you and that black thumb of yours,” he brushes said thumb with his own knobby one, “have to do is direct me. It will take a while, of course, and we’ll need to keep accepting the coin in the meantime, but just think how satisfying it will be, when our crops finally come in and we can send off the pick of our crop to them with a bonus for the royal table, and tell them they needn’t bother us with their coin ever again.”

Loghain is quiet and looking at him rather intently, but slowly, oh so slowly the barest hint of a smile lifts the corner of Loghain’s mouth, and in that moment Maric knows he has won.

“If this was all some convoluted plot to convince me to go into the market with you, all you had to do was ask.” Loghain says, and Maric laughs, feeling unexpected tears prick briefly at the corners of his eyes.

“So we have a deal then?”

Loghain sighs, releasing Maric’s hand to swipe the small bag off the table and weigh it in his palm.

“We have a deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Like the scripture says:  
> 'Everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree  
> And no one shall make them afraid.'  
> ...  
> I want to sit under my own vine and fig tree  
> A moment alone in the shade  
> At home in this nation we’ve made"
> 
> \- One Last Time; Hamilton, music & lyrics by Lin-Manuel Miranda


End file.
